


Mirror, Mirror

by horrorterror-si (horrorterroronesie)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Insert, Time Travel, relationships and rating may change!, this is so self indulgent and also a reason to practice using first person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26492752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horrorterroronesie/pseuds/horrorterror-si
Summary: “Congratulations on your employment, monsieur. We hope the Opera Garnier may gain great things from your expertise, just let me find the papers to sign-.”In front of me was a pair of very frazzled-looking men in Victorian-ish formalwear. They traded nervous glances as I stood there for one long moment, barely staying on my feet.… 'Monsieur'?... Opera Garnier?(or: I blink and wake up in 1880s Paris, embroiled in the plot of the Phantom of the Opera)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 34





	1. Thursday

I walked up to the podium, the applause thundering in my ears. I had _done_ it. I passed my piano diploma exam. Sixteen months of endless daily practice was all leading up to this moment. 

“Congratulations for achieving the Associate Diploma of the Trinity College of London in piano performance.” The examiner outstretched his hand to shake, with the paper held in the other.

I met it with my own- cold, clammy from the stress. My vision was blurring from it, too, _god_ I was tired-

No.

That wasn’t why my vision was blurring.

It couldn’t be just that, as a wave of intense dizziness hit me, making the very world seem to tilt off its axis. Was I falling down, or simply swaying on my feet? What was happening-

As quickly as it had happened, reality seemed to snap back into place.

“Congratulations on your employment, monsieur. We hope the Opera Garnier may gain great things from your expertise, just let me find the papers to sign-.”

In front of me was a pair of very frazzled-looking men in Victorian-ish formalwear. They traded nervous glances as I stood there for one long moment, barely staying on my feet.

… Monsieur?

  
  


_... Opera Garnier?_

Around me, the sounds of an orchestra tuning and the rhythmic attacks of dancers’ feet to the floorboards trickled down through the plush walls of the small office I seemed to be in. Through a small window behind the pair, I could see distinctly European, distinctly _historical_ facades on the buildings. Nothing could have been further from the modern New Zealand buildings I’d been surrounded by up until a moment ago. And Monsieur, like I was a man-

I fainted.

\--

_“What if he’s dead, we just_ hired _the damn man-”_

 _“There is_ no _chance- I mean- he just fainted! It happens to these artistic types, or so I’m told, remember the last-”_

_“Yes, and he quit, so I doubt this one will stay long with all those Ghost stories-”_

_“Messieurs, I kindly implore you to step away! Give him space.”_

My eyes flew open, then shut again as I squinted against the light. I was in the same room as before, and huddled over me were the same men as before- with the addition of another, with eyeglasses and a stethoscope, who after instructing me to lift my head, count the fingers he was holding up, scurried out of the room with a terse order to not overexert myself.

_Alright. Okay. I was hallucinating, or something._

_… Or I had been isekai’d into the Phantom of the Opera universe, which was- wasn’t that just regular 19th century France? Had I gone back in time, or into a different universe altogether?_

_And was it the musical or the book? Or some other offshoot I hadn’t seen?_

  
  


As soon as he was gone, the two men descended upon me.

“Monsieur T-” The shorter one began, then made that particular sound non-slavs make when called upon to pronounce something with five or more consonants strung together like rocks on a string. My surname, glaringly Croatian, stayed the same in the shift, I supposed. 

“A French variant might be more appropriate.” I suggested, trying to sound like I wasn’t shitting my pants from terror. And what was up with the _monsieur_? I mean, I wasn’t complaining- it wasn’t any better or worse than being considered female- but strange nonetheless. Okay. Wait, I had been offered a job, hadn’t I?

As if I’d spoken those last words out loud, the short man nodded.

“Wonderful, perfect, yes, of course. Andre, where did you put the employment papers for Monsieur ...Tournier?”

  
  


I looked at the papers. In French, but somehow the words coalesced in my mind into something I could understand- an offer for the position of _répétiteur_ in the Opera Garnier. Paid an amount that would likely mean more to me if I knew how much a _franc_ meant in New Zealand dollars, or even US dollars for that matter. I was to accompany the choir, singers and dancers in rehearsals, not teaching, just following the instructions of the ballet masters or whoever else on the piano.

The only problem was that I wasn’t the person they thought I was. Certainly they wouldn’t be giving a role like this to some seventeen-year-old anxiety-ridden enby. What did I look like to them? What did I look like? What did _any_ of this look like?!

Okay. Calm down. This was an opportunity like no other, to see the events of my favourite musical ( _holy shit?!!?)_ happening in front of me. I could- I could-

  
Well. I didn’t actually know what I could do about it. But I would do _something,_ damn it!

What the hell was I doing?

  
  


I leaned down, and with cursive carefully looped to become illegible I signed on the dotted line.

No going back.

Thus began my employment at the Opera Garnier. In terms of self inserts, it was a pretty good beginning. No appearing in the middle of some fraught personal moment, or homeless on the streets of Paris. The author, who if this was actually a self-insert was probably also me (and wasn’t that a trip?) had seen fit to give me an apartment, too, which I found out as, upon leaving the Opera quickly afterwards, my feet carried me to a nice enough apartment building nearby. The building had shops on the ground floor, stretching up another six or so into the smog.

  
  


I patted the pockets of my pants and coat, finding a small brass key with _5c_ written on the keychain. Fifth floor, then. Alright.

  
  
  


My apartment was small, with a living room, bathroom, kitchen and bedroom in a sort of self-contained square where only the bedroom and living room had any windows at all. The furniture was well-made, though simple and utilitarian, and the kitchen was... minimal. I'd probably be eating out a lot.

  
  


I approached the mirror in my bathroom with no little trepidation. It felt like, if I looked in, everything that had happened in the last few hours would become real. Would I even recognize myself? What if I had an entirely different body?

I steadied myself against the sink and looked up.

… 

A face not wholly unfamiliar looked back up at me. The same nose, same deep-set eyes and eternally flushed cheeks. More androgynous, though. And older.

Damn, I looked like an _adult of entirely indeterminable gender._ This was basically my biggest wish. My chest was still… _there_ , so it seemed like nothing else had changed, which was less ideal, but at least I was beginning this adventure on a good foot. An apartment, a job connected to the main plot, plot armour from period-typical misogyny…

  
  


Which led me, an hour later, to lying in bed and staring at the ceiling in abject terror.

_Now_ what was I supposed to do?

I mean, the story of the Phantom of the Opera had clearly begun, as evidenced by the new management. But it wasn’t anything as simple as a clear-cut tragedy, there was nothing _preventable-_

Wait. Shit. Buquet and Piangi.

Okay, scratch that. I was going to save those two. Being annoying wasn’t a death sentence, after all. Though I still didn’t know what I could do about Christine- was it _necessary_ that she suffer? Would the plot reinstate itself if I tried to meddle? Would Erik just decide one day that I was annoying, and _woop_ I’m lasso’d into oblivion?  
I needed to be careful about that. 

The reality of my situation setting in, the lustre of Erik’s character was fading away to a sort of bone-deep fear. It wasn’t exactly a good workplace environment to have someone living in the basement, terrorising the employees and extorting the managers ad nauseam. Someone entirely too willing to kill if the fancy struck him.

  
  


The sounds of Paris at night filtered in through the woefully badly insulated walls. _My_ walls, of my apartment. Because I would be living here until I figured out how to go back home.

Did I want to?

Questions, questions. Anxiety gripped me more intensely than it ever had before. Now, life and death was on the line.

  
  
  


It was a while before I could get to sleep.


	2. Friday

My eyes slammed open like doors in a hurricane, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. Where the hell was-

OH.

That was  _ real. _

I sat up, clambering out of the bed- it was set into the wall, enclosed on three sides and decidedly too short for me- and looked around.

Still real. Still kinda gross-smelling, but this was the fifth floor and smells moved upwards. The floor, when I collapsed onto it, was cold but smooth wood.

I struggled to get my breathing under control. Damn, I couldn’t just sit here having an anxiety attack for the whole day. I needed to- wait, what day was it? Friday? I needed to get to  _ work. _

With the air of someone facing a pack of wild alligators, I ventured into the recesses of my wardrobe. Waistcoats, coats and jackets. Pants in so many shades of tan and tweed. The  _ me _ that had existed in this body before me was lame as hell, apparently. I picked out a simple grey vest, with a tweed coat over it and matching pants. The selection of neckwear, however, mystified me. How was I supposed to tie any of this, and would I get arrested or something if I did it wrong?

Breakfast was honey and butter on bread, with a glass of milk. Not that different from what I would eat normally, but the bread was a bit rough. 

  
  


And then I was off. The air had a chill to it, a sharp edge that cut through much of the city’s miasma. A bell tolled in the distance- was it the Notre Dame? Some other church? Regardless, it was 8 in the morning.

And I was there.

I stared up at the Opera Garnier with no little amount of trepidation. Probabilities ran through my head. How likely was it that the eponymous Phantom would immediately appear in some contrived, out-of-character plot circumstance that would make him follow me around everywhere? Pretty unlikely, if I had anything to say about it. How likely was it that I would make a fool of myself on my first day working here?

… Thinking about _ that _ was depressing.

  
  


I entered around the side, following a gaggle of girls looking like they were likely dancers. Once inside, I caught the eye of a thin, greying man who introduced himself as the choirmaster, and in turn introduced me to the sallow and scowling face of Madame Giry. 

“Madame!” The choirmaster, whose name was something with an A that I had immediately forgotten, called out. “This is the new pianist, I believe I mentioned him? Monsieur Tournier, was it? From the Balkans?”

“That’s me.” I said weakly, waving. Was I supposed to bow? Did people bow in the Victorian era?

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur.” Madame Giry said with a thin-lipped smile, bowing slightly. I bowed as well, a notably more jerky and awkward motion. At least my time in Japan had honed that instinct, when I knew to use it.

Introductions continued. Madame Giry was the ballet mistress, which meant… musical canon? Musical canon. Between the two of them, my new schedule became apparent. Tomorrow, I had a two hour rehearsal with the dancers in the morning, then four hours altogether with the choir, then another two with the ballet. The day after, I would be working with the lead singers- the primaries- for most of the morning, then a break, then back to the dancers. Every day of the week seemed to be different, and more importantly organized around the evening shows that were still running- though for different operas than  _ Hannibal _ which I was in on.

I was shown to my ‘office’, where I could practice the accompaniments ahead of time. Lucky, considering I wasn’t actually  _ good _ at sight reading, and most likely was going to get fired tomorrow. Unless I ‘got gud’ as one might say.

The office itself was a tiny practice room with a desk and chair shoved in the corner, a single bent music stand and an upright piano.

  
  


And a full-size mirror bolted to the wall.

  
  


I paused, then resolutely crossed the room to look at its sides. There was no separation between it and the wall that I could see, but no hinges either. Though I didn’t expect it to be that easy.

A finger pressed against its surface touched its reflected counterpart. That meant it was a normal mirror, right? Or was it normal when it had a gap? Wait, it  _ did _ have a bit of a gap. Did it?

I swore, stepping back. This was just idiotic. I was being paranoid for no reason- even  _ if _ it was a two-way mirror, what reason would Erik have to spy on me specifically? If the new managers were already here, and Hannibal was underway, then he was preoccupied with Christine. 

Okay. I was fine.

I turned back to the piano, grabbing the large sheaf of papers lying on it. Sheet music. It had sections for multiple productions- Operas and ballets both. I followed the marker to  _ Hannibal _ and the pieces I had to know by tomorrow.

Time to get to work.

\--

Several hours later, I was hitting my head on the piano keys, groaning quietly. I couldn’t do this! I seriously couldn’t do this, my wrists hurt, I was hungry and I didn’t know where the breakroom was, if there even  _ was _ one, and I hadn’t even packed lunch! And there was  _ so much _ I needed to do!

I got up, stretching my back out with a groan. I could probably ask whoever was practicing the flute in the other room. 

I knocked, waited until the music stopped, then leaned in through the ajar door.

“Hi. Sorry. I’m new here, is there a breakroom here? Or…?”

The mystery flautist turned out to be a young, brown-haired man introducing himself as ‘Jacques Bouchard’. He shook my hand rather sweatily, promising to show me to the breakroom.

“It’s companionable enough. We play card games before performances- to relieve stress, you know.”   
“It definitely seems like a nice atmosphere.” I said. A hundred years in the past, and I was no better at small talk.

Jacques cringed.

“Atmosphere… Well. _ We’re _ all friendly, but…”

“But?”

He straightened, shaking his head.

“Nothing, nothing. I won’t be one for gossip.”

I just nodded. Had he wanted to mention the Opera Ghost? Surely, somebody would mention him sooner or later. Though I didn’t know what could be done. He hadn’t killed Buquet and Piangi out of a personal vendetta- just as a means to an end. If I managed to get them both out of harm’s way, would he just kill somebody else?

“We’re here!”

I blinked, looking around. Shit, I hadn’t paid attention to how we got here. It was a small, carpeted room, with a round card table and a few armchairs. A small bookshelf sat half-empty in the corner, next to a door helpfully marked  _ Exit _ .

“Oh, thank you. Actually, I just realised I didn’t bring anything to eat, so I’m just gonna… go do that. Yeah. Thank you.” I bowed awkwardly, patted my pockets- yep, I had a wallet- and left the Opera.

Lunch was a simple affair, as I attempted to find a restaurant off the main road that didn’t seem exorbitantly priced- taking the amount in my wallet as a guide. 

  
  


There I sat, having a probably-still-overpriced meal. Some sort of cheesy chicken dish with lightly toasted bread.

  
  


The thought of the mirror in my office still chilled me. However much I was enjoying this rather cushy fictional transplantation, I had to be careful.  _ He _ was still out there, whether or not the mirror was truly two-sided or not. Could I talk myself into his good graces and cause him to deal with things non-murderously? Or endear myself to the managers and get them to take him seriously, therefore preventing retribution?

I returned to the Opera soon after, refreshed and ready for another four or so hours of brute-forcing my way into learning the pieces. I didn’t have time for gradual learning. My proper duties started tomorrow- and wasn’t that a bitch? A six day work week.

My back hurt. This sucked.

I looked around, checking the door was closed. I could afford a  _ little  _ bit of music from the future, right? Just to pick me up. I launched into U.N. Owen Was Her with relish, like a breath of fresh air after the endless stuffy Classical opera pieces. The sound reverberated off the walls, loosened my limbs as I climbed to a booming finish.

  
  


And thus the day passed. I stayed until it got dark, then cursed the fact that I’d forgotten to grab a coat and walked home shivering. 

\--

  
  


In the darkness, a figure stepped lightly into the small room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the specific version of u.n. owen was her is this https://musescore.com/user/5396321/scores/2921531


	3. Saturday

I was at the Opera Garnier bright and early. The third day, and the scope of it still amazed me. It stood out from the buildings around it, somehow both more _real_ and theatrical in its grandness. A stage replica of a building distilled. Today, I would be practicing with the ballet corps in the morning and the choir in the afternoon. There was significant overlap between the two groups for this production, but they were still separated. I didn’t have Christine until Tuesday, since I’d appeared near the end of the week. 

  
  


I skulked awkwardly into the main ballet practice room. Around me, the dancers were stretching, not as far as modern ballet dancers but still far more flexibly than I could manage. I nodded to Madame Giry and took my seat at the piano, flipping through the pages to reach the beginning of the _Hannibal_ section.

“From Section B of _Hannibal Comes!_ Everyone!” Madame Giry’s voice cut through the chatter like a hot knife through tulle. Wait, that didn’t make sense. “ _Two_ , three, four-”

I launched into the piece. She’d set a slower tempo than performance speed, which I was certainly thankful for. I plodded through the page without too many problems, then the next page-

“Stop! Sorelli, I am in the centre of the room. _You_ are not. Back to the walls, try it again from section C.” The ballerinas twirled across the room, the sound of their feet providing counterpoint to my melody.

I plodded through the page, then the next page, then I turned the-

“ _What_ are you doing with your leg! Don’t think I can’t see you! Go back five bars and I want to see that ballotté again.”

Yeah, this wasn’t as fun as you might expect. I flipped the page. 

Wait. The page I turned to- and the one across it- were littered with small marks in pencil. Annotations, some notes circled, articulation made more prominent, an entire phrase circled with COUNT THE BEATS written above it in scraggly, childish writing.

This wasn’t my handwriting.

“Monsieur Tournier? The accompaniment, _please?_ ” 

I flinched, only then realising I had stopped playing to stare blankly at my sheet music. Madame Giry was glaring at me.

“Right. Sorry.”

I approached the keyboard again like a live alligator, sitting down to play. Who the hell would bother to- _Erik?_ No, no, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be! Damn, it totally was, wasn’t it? Why! What?! Why?! Caught in my own mind like that, I dimly registered the sounds of dancing had stopped. I stopped too. Madame Giry loomed over the piano bench like a nimbostratus cloud, dark and foreboding. Except the rain in this case would be me getting fired.

"Why are you not playing?"

"I- I don't-"

“There is work to be done, Monsieur.”

“I-” I gulped in a deep breath and nodded.

“I suggest you collect yourself. Learn to _play the piano_ in the next few seconds, if necessary. I will _not_ abide incompetence.” 

I nodded again. What the hell else could I do? My office wasn’t safe. I certainly wasn’t. I should quit, I should, but… No, I wouldn’t.

I took a deep breath and tried to pull myself together.

  
  
  


The rehearsal passed with agonizing slowness. I kept catching myself throwing glances over my shoulder, certain that there was somebody behind me. I played a lot of wrong notes that way. Madame Giry must have considered it enough of an improvement, because she ignored me for the rest of the rehearsal. When it finished, I was almost tired enough to fall asleep standing up.

“I’m sorry she was so hard on you.” Said somebody from just behind my elbow.

“AUGH!” I fell forwards, sheet music spilling out of my arms. The person behind me gasped and moved to help me pick them up.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you! I’m Meg Giry, I’m in the ballet corps.” She held up a haphazard pile of papers. “I hope I didn’t put these out of order…?”

“It’s fine, sorry. I should’ve paid more attention.” For both the rehearsal and just now, I guess. At least this was a good opportunity to meet a canon character. “Giry? Like…” 

She smiled at me, loose strands of hair turning white in the sunlight where they escaped from the ballet bun. 

“She’s my mother.”  
I nodded in faux-dawning understanding, standing up to help her up as well. That was the done thing, right? She took my hand, rising with just token pressure on it. “Like I said, I’m sorry for how she was. Opera is… a pretty demanding field.”

“I’ve noticed.” I smiled a tad, motioning to the door where all the other ballerinas were exiting. “Are you staying here, or…?”

“No, I have the choir rehearsal- oh, are you going to be there as well?”

I nodded.

“We can walk there together,” I began, “Maybe. If you like.” 

We chatted on the way to the choir rehearsal room. My mind was on other things, however, so even though the idle chatter was more pleasant than any conversation I’d had recently, I begged off of it to continue looking at my sheet music.

  
  


The singing parts were far more liberally annotated. Go figure. The lines of each word and scribble had me stumbling over the notes trying to commit each to memory- because, well, who was I kidding? I wouldn’t say no to free advice just because it was the _Phantom of the fucking Opera_ giving it. Wait, what did that make me? His side hustle?

Perhaps I could use that.

It was dawning on me, looking at what he’d done to my score, that the Phantom of the Opera was indeed the genius the musical and book painted him as. Or at least well-versed in music, _very much so,_ leading my mind down paths and ways I could turn the situation to my advantage. To reach the highest possible acclaim- no, forget that! There would be a renaissance happening here soon, the Bohemian Revolution, I could make my mark here. God, but it was tempting to say 'to hell with it' and meet him face-to-face. To mask, as it were. The things I could learn from him… The _heights_ I could soar to, as a musician and fledgeling composer, if he chose to teach me… 

  
  


But that was madness, of course.

  
  


Thus ended my first work week at the Opera Garnier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty to everyone that commented! comments fuel me and make me write more ^w^


	4. Monday

Sunday passed with no particular fanfare. I went grocery shopping, learned how to properly tie a necktie-

and life continued.

Like this, away from the grand, oppressive edifice of the Opera House, the world seemed so endless and free. Like I could simply float away into the sky.

Still, the show must go on. That thought led me back to my workplace on Monday, clutching the annotated sheet music. The show must go on, though the winding backstage halls and stuffy practice rooms inevitably led my mind towards who must be lurking between the walls. Underneath the foundations. 

I nodded to the choirmaster as I walked in through the back, braving a sea of tutus to grab at the day’s schedule.  _ Hannibal _ premiered tomorrow- I’d almost forgotten. I could have a nice evening at the opera in the cheapest seats and enjoy this world for what it was. Now, what did I have this morning…?

Piangi, as it turned out. And Christine Daae in the afternoon. Well, it had to happen some time- and since it was rather unlikely I would be meeting the Vicomte de Chagny any time soon, Christine’s rehearsal would be the closest I would get to the plot. Gah, I hoped I didn’t embarrass myself in front of her. What age was she- like, 20? Oh god, I hoped she wasn’t a kid like in the movie. 

Wait, shit, what if this really was the  _ movie _ universe? What if I came face-to-face with the Phantom and it was fucking can’t-sing mild-facial-rash Gerard Butler? I snorted. I’d probably just let him kill me on the spot.

  
  


I entered my tiny office, seeing Piangi and his vocal coach already there. They both introduced themselves, the vocal coach- a short, dour man- instructing the tenor to begin running through warmups. I sat down and got ready, as Piangi beside me made foghorn sounds.

“Good. Relax the throat, now, and go again.” More foghorn sounds. He had an extensive range, I’d give him that. Luckily, it wasn’t long until I had something to do. We transitioned into other warmups, passages going down semitone by semitone, then to five-note scales going up on every vowel. It was maybe twenty minutes until we- well, just Piangi- actually began rehearsing the songs of  _ Hannibal _ .

It wasn’t a particularly outstanding opera. The plot was there as  _ recitativo _ connective tissue to provide reasons to put in any song the composer, music director, or singer particularly liked at that moment. What was original included some good songs, though, I couldn’t fault it in that regard.

  
  
  


The morning passed quickly. Both Piangi and his teacher were affable enough, one more of a strong personality than the other- but that was show business, I supposed. I shook their hands as they left.

  
  
  


Christine Daae opened the door carefully, peeking through the crack. I nodded for her to come in.

She really was quite pretty, was my first thought. Light brown curls cascaded down her shoulders, and with high cheekbones and brilliant blue eyes she seemed set apart from the other dancers. Well, she wasn’t a dancer anymore, was she? Oh, wait, she wasn’t French either. That would explain it. She gave me a slight smile. 

“Come in!” I waved her towards the piano. “We have… three hours? Is that right?”

“I think so. I’m afraid I’m as new to this schedule as you are, Monsieur.” She laughed a little and scratched at her cheek. “Should we start?”   
“Right! Yes, of course. Let’s-” I opened the folder of sheet music on my piano. “Wait, you should warm up.”

Hey, wait a second.

  
  


“Um,” I started, “Isn’t your singing teacher supposed to be here?” 

Her expression immediately became far more guarded. She opened her mouth, but I barrelled on.

“Because, uh, I’m not a vocal coach, and while I did have a rehearsal with Monsieur Piangi and his teacher, I doubt that his warmups would… help? So, uh, there’s not much that I can do… is there no way you can get your singing teacher to get here? Since. Like I said. I can’t do much.” The answer was certain, of course. But I  _ did _ have no idea what to do, and I certainly wasn’t getting any ideas myself...

“I- He’s a private man, Monsieur. I take lessons outside of the Opera.”

“Right, right, so… um. He won’t be coming…?” Boy, was this conversation going well. 

“No, he… he won’t be coming.”

“Right. Well. I hope you’ll forgive me if I just do the best I can in his absence?” I tried to grin my way out of the hole I had dug. From Christine’s awkward smile back, I wasn’t doing too well.

I ran through warmups to the best of my ability. And, when that ability ran out about ten minutes in, I segued into what I remembered of choir warmups.  _ Bella Signora, _ that sort of thing. Then  _ Hannibal. _

And  _ damn. _

It would be a disservice to  _ just _ say she could sing. She could do much more than that, and I saw how the instrument of her voice had been polished to perfection, to a razor-sharp edge. 

  
  
  


I stopped in the middle of one of her arias.

“I have an idea. Can you humour me? I think that that run would sound better if you grouped it more clearly into- what is it- groups of four? Because it’s a repeating passage, so if you treat it like each is a self-contained phrase-”

“Like this?” Christine sang the segment again. I nodded enthusiastically. 

“Exactly! Wait, that motif shows up a few more times, doesn’t it?”

She rounded the piano to leaf through the pages.

“I think it does, just-”

I scooted to the side to give her space, and looked up idly.

  
  
  
  


Visible in the darkness of the mirror, just over the piano and behind my shoulder, was a ivory-white mask.

  
  
  


The instant of terror gripped me like a lightning bolt to the nerves, and I toppled backwards off my stool, scrambling up to press my back to the wall, even as Christine exclaimed in fright and ran up to me.

“What’s wrong, monsieur?! What happened?”

My breath rattling in my chest, I looked up to face the mirror again.

Nothing.

“You didn’t- didn’t see-”

“See what?”

It was as if I had imagined it, but I couldn’t have. I  _ couldn’t _ have.

“N- nothing. I’m- f- hh- I’m fine, Mademoiselle. Sorry to scare you.”

She followed my gaze to where it remained fixed on the mirror.

Still nothing. Was I imagining the soft laughter at my back? Was the Phantom of the  _ fucking _ Opera walking between the walls, circling like a panther about to pounce? That was the point of a panopticon- if you didn’t know where you were being watched from-  _ if  _ you were being watched- then that was the same as if you were being watched  _ everywhere, always. _

I took a deep breath. He wouldn’t kill me right in front of Christine, I could be sure of that much.

“Oh, I hope I didn’t bother anybody.” I dragged a hand down my face. Christine still looked worried, eyes darting around the room. “Look, can we start again from section B? We still have some time to practice.”

“But- Are you quite sure you’re alright, Monsieur?”

I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. The back of my neck prickled.

“Let’s just start again.”

I began again from the same place. My hands shook, and each time I misplaced a note, Christine shot me a look that betrayed concern. Continue on, and with every fumbled phrase my jaw clenched and my shoulders drew up until I just stopped.

“Look, I’m sorry, I can’t- I don’t- can we try this again next time? I’m very sorry.”   
“No, it’s fine.” She said. “I’m afraid I won’t have my teacher with me, but we can keep rehearsing tomorrow.”

“Right. Right.”

I nodded to her weakly. She smiled a little, though confusion and concern were the primary emotions on her face.

She left.

  
  
  
  
  
  


I stared at the mirror, fists clenched, white-knuckled. A coiled spring, ready to snap out and break something- my fingers, the glass, the damn  _ silence _ . If Erik was still here, he made no moves.

I wasn’t looking at myself, except I was, cataloguing the feeling of weakness showing on my face, the inescapable situation, I was just standing there, too much of a coward to  _ move- _

I didn’t punch the mirror. I didn’t try to open it.

I turned and ran out of the room.

  
  
  


The cold, biting evening air stole my breath away as I opened the door to the roof of the Opera. No small feat, considering that panic and the many, many flights of stairs on the way up had already stolen most of it.

I leaned back against the door, scrubbing at my face. Just sweat, no tears. Thank god. I wasn’t so far gone as to just start sobbing- not yet. And if I did,  _ he _ wouldn’t see me do so.

Why was he there? 

Just to intimidate me? Just because I was talking to Christine? Because I was helping her? He helps me, he scares me- was it intentional? Surely it had to be. There had to be something that made sense, some thread- it was about Christine. But why the sheet music?

I was thinking in circles.

  
  


Fog was rolling in over the roofs of Paris. Winter would be arriving in full force, if this wasn’t already it.

… Back at home, it had been spring. Back at home, I hadn’t had to reckon with my own responsibilities.

  
  
  


It was a while until I came down from the roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> patch notes: fixed some clunky wording+historical innacuracies in the first and 3rd chapters and added a few brief sentences to set the scene! thanks for the comments, i write exponentially faster with each new one! :3p


End file.
